Iron Gods PbP with GM ImpureAscetic

Game Master impureascetic

I have no idea what a gameplay thread is, but I figured it might be good to start one since this campaign is gaining momentum.

The acrid mixture of blood, ozone, and sulfur pounds against your nose. Either the cavern walls or your ears still ring with the screams, the shrill hisses of hot beams shredding the air, and the impossible bass of the explosion that killed two of your companions.

Tarrana pats down Stampy, and Stampy uses his trunk to do the same with Tarrana. They share a brief, bloody embrace. As they turn toward the wreckage of the giant mechanized spider, they see Gurka on her knees holding Harlock's limp body, most of his mystical tattoos scorched from his flesh, half his face a gory remnant of its previously handsome self. Tarrana grits her teeth. As always, her sadness and loneliness are quick to take the form of anger. Even in this aftermath of battle, she wants to hit something with her hammer.

Gurka takes a sharp, raspy breath in. It seems to rattle the metal mask against her face. Then she begins to sob. She has no vanity. Thick cords of phlegm fall from her breathing holes to the ground, and tears spiral down their long. Harlock shudders in her quaking grip.

But for the sound of Gurka's anguish, the cavern is silent. Hellion, the false god of Scrapwall, is dead. The Lords of Rust are no more.

What do you do?

This is where we will play the game proper.

It has been days since the party departed Iadenveigh for Torch. You have seen forests and rivers pass beneath you. There was rain on the second day, and Longdreamer flew above the clouds. From your height, Numeria seems almost like a beautiful, animated painting. On the second day, you lost Stampy and Tarrana. They fell asleep during the (rather boring) flight, and you found their bodies-- what goo remained-- and decided it was best to move on.

You had the mission to think about: the fate of Numeria, Golarion...

...and Unity.

Thanks to Longdreamer's magic, you sleep soundly. She comes to each of you as you slumber, although she feels a clear kinship with Ashlig, who is so much more facile with her native telepathic speech. You have watched four sunsets from Longdreamer's broad insectoid back when you see the familiar purple glow of Torch's light on the horizon.

Since you last saw the place, your band has changed yet again. You who survive have somehow inherited this awful burden. Of the original four who actually discovered the existence of Unity, who fought against Hellion, three have taken their final journey toward the Bonelands, and one pursues her greater fascination beneath Iadenveigh.

The time may come when you can chafe against the bit destiny has shoved into your mouths, but that time is not now. For now, the time has come to lighten your load of unhelpful wares, to fatten your purse, and then, however much you may dread it, to scour the Felldales for a place in Numeria feared by all who know of it: The Scar of the Spider.

There, you must find the neurocam of Casandalee, the one-time "daughter" of Unity and "sister" of Hellion, who broke from her creator only to meet her end in the defunct remains of the Andromeda and to then be stolen away for experimentation by Furkas Xoud. You believe it is only with Casandalee's aid and knowledge that you can possibly hope to defeat the threat of Unity as Hellion described it.

Your time in Torch is temporary. You must soon make your way westward again, into the Felldales, where you will find the Scar of the Spider, that frightful place so few travelers have returned from.

Well, this isn't much different.

Threnduil and Ashlig have returned to Torch. For Threnduil, travelling on Longdreamer's back took some getting used to. Stampy and Tarrana must have never gotten used to it, for they plummeted to their demise.

Whenever I return to this town, someone close to me has recently died, thought Threnduil. It's true that they were thrown together, but, for the past few months, they shed blood side-by-side, so Threnduil would always remember and honor them. He wondered if there was any way to pay his respects to Tarrana and her nameless ancestors. He would make a small sacrifice to Gorum.

"Ashlig, I would like to spend some time in repose. I will stay at Antinua's while we are in town. You are welcome to join me there, but please leave me be for a few hours."

Threnduil heads for Antinua's, saying hello to a few people he knows on the way there. He stops to see Falin, Antinua's father. From the path, he can see Falin sitting in front of a fire, reading. He hesitates, temporarily awash with emotion, before speaking through the open window.

"Hello, sir."

Falin raises his head slowly, then turns halfway in his chair to face the window.

"I dreamt last night of a large butterfly. I thought it portentous of your good health, and I see that you still stand with us. Come in."

Threnduil enters and the two bow heads as they gently embrace.

"Indeed, and your dream was closer to the truth than you could have imagined. We have battled strange men and their machinations and taken losses, but Ashlig and I still find ourselves blessed. I fear our time in Torch to be brief, though, because we've uncovered questions that still need to be answered to keep Torch and Numeria safe."

"Hmm. I know your motivations are strong and you will follow through to do what you think is right. He sits down, motioning for Threnduil to sit as well. "I wish I could help somewhat, as I love this town as well, even if they think they know things they don't."

"Oh, they're foolish. And superstitious. They doubted me when I believed there were beings from beyond our world, and now that Antinua's death seems to have vindicated me some, they're confused. They can't admit that they were wrong, but they still show deference to me. They've transferred their superstition to her home, in fact, claiming that she haunts it."

Threnduil's heart skips a beat. She might not be entirely gone...the things I've seen lately...

"This is no less insulting than how they were before," Falin continues, "as if she'd be that petty as to come back to mess with their feeble minds. She was smarter than anyone in this town, I swear. She would be off in far more interesting places if she was still somehow among us."

"Thank you very much. And now, my journey has been odd and tiring, so I wish to rest. Thank you, Falin. I will stop by later tonight." Falin nods and gives a whimsical smile as Threnduil takes his leave.

As he walks to Antinua's cottage, his mind turns over many things. Lost in thought, he nearly passes Antinua's. His speech catches in his throat as he realizes he was about to call her name.

Not yet.

He walks behind her cottage to the edge of the woods and sits on a fallen log. Pushing thoughts away to focus on something else, he unsheathes a rapier. He looks at his forearm and mutters a few words to Gorum. He draws the blade down his arm a few inches. Blood drips to the earth and he says, "Tarrana, thank you for your sacrifice and skill. I shall always disassemble robots in your honor. Stampy, you were a lovable creature and I am thankful for your strength."

He kneels down, mixing his blood with the soil. He turns to go and sees that the bark has fallen from the log where he was sitting. A centipede scurries around the log to the darkness below.

Threnduil returns to Antinua's home, opens the door, and – still – notes the faint smell of the scented oil Antinua wore. He stands in the doorway a moment, looks to the sky, swallows, and enters.

Ashlig nods to Threnduil as he withdraws. He bites his lip. That man has some burdens to bear I'd never wish on anyone.

He hefts his trusty black marketeer's bag and begins to make his way down the street. The bag has saved him from inquisition from the Technic League more times than he can count, and it's help up even when making the switch from scavenging to adventuring. He nods to citizens as they pass, and stops at a crossroad, debating on where to head to next.

Can't figure what to sell if I don't lay it all out. I'm sure Khonnir won't mind if I monopolize a table or two. He might be interested in the tech anyway.

After a moment Ashlig heads over to the Foundry.

He steps inside, waves to Khonnir and Val behind the bar, and sits down at a table. He unslings his bag from his back and begins pulling out items one by one until there's a veritable wealth of items spread out on one table and spilling onto the next.

Torch bustles with activity. While the dimming and relighting of the purple flame was dramatic for the town, it was, in truth, a brief few weeks. That short time did not stem the tide of artisans, miners, and metalworkers seeking to take advantage of the superhot forge atop Black Hill, nor the ancillary economy of traders, merchants, and hangers-on that has risen around them. There are groups camped out at the base of Black Hill waiting for the heavy carts to wheel down from the summit, waiting to for their turn to smelt metals on one of Golarion's hottest fires. There, just a few hundred yards around the mountain from the sulfurous pond where your adventure began, groups who would rarely speak to each other-- a caravan from from Osirion, a gang of Varisian smiths, a family of dwarven smiths, an arcane craftsman from the Mwangi Expanse, and cetera-- all sit and wait, unlikely and impatient neighbors, all eager to work with rare skymetals.

Farther from from Black Hill, visitors confine their explorations to the likes of the Copper Coin and the Guildhouse, although some make their way to the temple of Brigh, not out of adulation or reverence but to seek trade deals outside the grip of Bazlundi Otterbie's consortium and to repair whatever wounds they accrued on their journey to Torch. The Lady in Bronze, and her servant Jhoram Kyte, are happy to oblige on both accounts.

Your party arrives just an hour from nightfall. Longdreamer lands far enough away to avoid arousing suspicion, and the spectacle of the purple blaze against the backdrop of a spectacular Numerian sunset is breathtaking-- a seeming welcome home after Ashlig and Threnduil's harrowing adventures. One of your companions is dead from a tragic fall. The other has given up the dangers of an adventuring life to pursue her zealous worship of metal. Night is falling on Torch.

By the time you are walking through town, the city's windows burn with lantern light, and low-ranking guards doubling as lantern bearers ensure the paths are pocked with circles of illumination. Torch is quiet but for the dull roar of merriment spilling from the Copper Coin, Evercandle, the Foundry Tavern, and, of course, the Marrymaid. Between those bastions of celebration, though, the citizens and visitors pass each other quietly, only greeting each other upon recognition.

One of the travelers makes his way to the Foundry Tavern. He's been on horseback for days, and his behind is grateful that his mare is tied up at Lesky's stable. Under the traveler's wide-brimmed hat, his eyes are concealed by dark spectacles. His expression is impassive, his gait determined. None who see him recognize him, nor could they guess at the storm of doubt behind his eyes. Not that they pay him much attention anyway-- all eyes are drawn to the rifle strapped to his back. The ones familiar with the tech gawk hardest. Deckard Caine isn't carrying a timeworn piece of crap. Even in Numeria, she's a rare sight. He ignores them all and stalks toward Khonnir Baine's tavern.

Although Caine is focused like a shot from a laser pistol on the road that will take him to the Foundry Tavern, there is another traveler who catches his attention, albeit briefly. This is, after all, a city of strangers, and he knows to expect the unexpected. Still, he is surprised to see that massive woman pass by. She must be as tall as a half-orc. Although she is cloaked, concealing her identity, it was never easy to elude Deckard Caine's attention-- even less so since he got in the habit of wearing the enchanted duergar eyewear. She is an android. A huge one. But different. As they pass each other, he hears the vague, nearly imperceptible hum of machinery. Cybernetics? No matter. Just another stranger. This is Numeria. This is Torch. People come from the world over to use the forge here.

Just a few minutes after that forgotten moment, Deckard Caine stands outside the Foudry Tavern. He hears a pair of halfling voices leading revelers in a soulful rendition of "The Tombs of Kaer Maga."

This is an important night for Deckard Caine, a night that will change the course of his fate forever.

Nothing about that moment on the road stands out to Sigil, either. She has been in Torch for four (4) days now, looking for the heroes of Scrapwall. She lumbers down the irregularly lit streets and instinctively flexes her fists as if they were apparitional claws. Baine would not speak to her. Kyte would not speak to her. Kyte asked too many questions. They seemed suspicious. Let them be suspicious. She needs to find them. Tarrana. Gurka. Antinua. Harlock. She knows these names. They are the ones who spit in the Technic League's eye by exposing and imprisoning Sanville Trett. Others have joined them. A dwarf and an elf. Sigil would join them, too. Enemies of the Technic League are friends of Sigil's. Word was they left Torch. No one knew if they would be back. People hoped they'd be back. Not the gamblers. They wanted Ulreth back. Sigil will find them. Sigil has to find them. Torch's streets are now a peripatetic recursive loop. Sigil does not tire. They were not at the Copper Coin. Now Sigil will go to the haunted home of Antinua the elf, in which home Sigil has yet to see evidence of haunting. Unlike the other nights Sigil has spent looking for any sign of those she seeks, though, there is a light coming from Antinua's windows tonight.

Sigil does not know that her search for the heroes of Scrapwall is at an end, albeit not in the way she is expecting. Nor does she know that for all her struggles, her real journey has just begun.

INSIDE THE FOUNDRY TAVERN
Ashlig lays out his trophies and materials on the tabletop. While the many patrons try to mind their business, it's hard to ignore the many obviously expensive items that keep coming and coming from Ashlig's enchanted satchel.

Khonnir Baine sits across from Ashlig and nods with a perfunctory smile that never reaches his eyes. The crowd around your table grows quiet,
and Khonnir says with just the right touch of mirth, "Come on now, give us some space!" When he returns his attention to Ashlig, the mirth has seeped away. In his eyes, you can see your missing companions: Tarrana and Gurka. You see, too, the legacy of the ones your friends lost. "Welcome back. It's good to see you again. Do you have any news? I confess I was hoping there would be three more of you. And a mammoth. Tell me what happened." Khonnir has a calm about him. He's an easy man to like right away, even without his towering reputation in town. But his voice pleads with Ashlig.

Just then, the door opens, and Ashlig sees a human man wearing in a wide-brimmed hat, his eyes shielded by dark spectacles. The man draws less of Ashlig's attention than the rifle slung across his back. In all Ashlig's scavenging and travels, he's rarely seen the like: a machine a cleverly designed and well-cared for as Kulgara's chainsaw, but perhaps more advanced. The man draws his eyes on Ashlig and walks toward him...